H.HJ X SKZ//OneShots

Stray Prince

7/30/24
"And who is that requests to speak with the king on such urgent matters?" The knight asks with a lift of a single eyebrow.
"Prince Hwang Hyunjin."
Or; Hyunjin ran away from his royal life as kid and only returns when he can no longer sit back and watch as his father, the king, destroys their kingdom. Unfortunately it seems he must go to hell and back just to take the crown.

>>>· ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · ꕥ · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ ·<<<

It's the dead of night when a body rolls out of his bed, his feet landing softly on the cold tile of his room. His silky nightgown falls as he stands, stopping right above his ankle. It's then that he looks towards his bed, realizing he has no intention of ever getting back in it. And with that thought gracing his mind, he's grabbing a pillow off his bed and ripping the cover off. It'll have to do.

He quickly scans the makings of his room, deciding what to grab and what to leave behind forever. Unsure of his time limit, he quickly shoves little necessities, little memories, into the pillowcase-makeshift-bag. His gaze caught the small stuffed weasel on his bed, and without a second thought he grabbed it.

At his desk he retrieved any and all journals, quills, pencils, and every bottle of ink he owned. Next was the small library that makes up a corner of his room. He knew exactly what books he could read time and time again, snatching them all off the shelf like candy. Returning to his bed, he grabbed a red blanket, given to him by his mother on his 8th birthday.

Then he quickly shuffled to his closet, grabbing a couple pairs of boots, saving the dirtiest ones for his feet. Lastly, he scanned the shelves, choosing enough articles of clothing to last him a week—on repeat. He chose the simplest of clothes he owned, he needed to fit in.

With his bag—pillowcase—packed, the next necessity was cutting his hair. It went a little past his shoulders, having had a child's stubbornness to not cut it before. But the public had seen him—even if he could count those meetings on one hand—so his hair had to go.

He thinks he may have started to rethink his decision, staring in the mirror at his young reflection. The scissors were in his hand, all he had to do was put them in his hair. He couldn't look—which would make him look messier, which will aide to look he supposes. So, with his eyes squeezed shut, a fist around his hair and the other gripping the scissors,

Snip, Snip, Snip

The feeling of his hair landing on his neck and in his shirt send shivers down his spine. Peeking an eye open, he supposes it could be worse, but that's not important. Instead, the scissors are thrown back into a desk drawer with haste, the hair clippings are swept into his palms and thrown out the window, fleeting with the night's wind.

And with enough time spent thinking alone, the boy grabbed his pillowcase of belongings, and snuck out his room. He'd been young enough to be curious, studying the schedules of the movement outside his room a couple times a week. 3 am seemed to always be dead to the world, not a movement or peep made in the hallway.

So as the clock read a little past 3, he knew it was time to go. Crazy that at only 10 years of age, this was a decision he was making. This wasn't some spur of events earlier that day and now he's fleeting. No, he's thought this through for weeks. He'd already come to terms with the fact no child should have to think like this. Yet he knows he will never be the only one. It's a cruel world he guesses.

True to his recent discoveries, the halls were empty, nothing but the moons light casting shadows over the hallway decor. Still, he stayed glued to the walls, his footsteps taught to be silent. All he needed to do was get to the kitchen, which in turn would lead him to the stables.